


Times Three

by inbox



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: First Kiss, Kissing, M/M, Trans Boone, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Male Courier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-19 09:46:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3605565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/pseuds/inbox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three Couriers, three kisses.</p><p>M!Courier/Boone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Times Three

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted March 31 2015, rewritten and updated March 13 2017.
> 
> Courtesy warning: non op men, front hole penetration with strap on, non op ejaculation.   
> Language choices: hole, dick.

 

> Josiah

It's a moment, Josiah thinks, standing there with snow dusting his hair and Boone's hard hands gently cupping his cheeks like he's made of fine china. A good moment. Boone's mouth tastes like old adrenaline and cigarettes and his fingers are stained with nicotine, and they're knee deep in wet snow with a mess of nightstalker blood staining their boots, but it's a fine moment. Couldn't ask for anything better.  
  
"Christ," says Boone, resting his forehead against Josiah's own, breathing heavy in great huffs of steam that billow in the cold air. "That's a thing."  
  
"Easy fella," says Josiah, and he feels a little light headed. Far too old to get giddy at a first kiss, maybe, but he's got a good twist in his gut and his mouth tingles where Boone's stubble bit into his lips. "I ain't complaining."  
  
Boone leans back a little and looks at him, really looks at him, those serious eyes mapping out his face from top to bottom. "Got snow in your eyebrows." He smooths it away with his thumbs and leans in, hesitant, until Josiah rests a big hand on the back of his neck, fingers knotted into the sweaty collar of Boone's shirt and holding him in place as he kisses him, deep and keen.  
  
"A thing," repeats Boone when they break apart, his face wreathed in the fog from their mingled breaths. The little lift at the corner of his mouth makes him look younger than usual. "You good?"  
  
"Yeah," says Josiah, and he's sure he's got a bit of a smile twisting up his own features. "Real good. Real, real good."

* * *

 

> Artur

There are big panting gasps pulled from deep in his chest as he braces his weight against the meat of Artur’s shoulders, wet breathes punched out of him by the way he lets gravity fuck himself down on the solid width of Artur’s dick, again and again. It would only take a tiny shred of effort to lean forward and seal the gap, drawing those gasps and groans into himself with his lips pressed against the slack jawed gape of Boone's mouth.  
  
But he doesn't, because… because, because.

They hadn’t discussed that. Funny how everything else got touched on, all these illicit little fantasies suddenly breathed into words over a steak dinner and a couple of drinks, ‘cept at no point had he thought to blurt out _I really wanna kiss you too_. All this time wasted, both play-acting at proprietary. Nothing but professionals, both of ‘em. Wouldn’t dream of fraternizing, ‘cept that was a rule put in place by an army they’d both left, and regulations they were no longer bound by.

There's only a small gap between them, close enough that he can feel Boone's breath brushing hot and damp against his face. Artur can smell himself on Boone’s jaw, smeared ‘round his lips, a reminder that not a half hour previous he’d near knocked himself out on the hotel room door as Boone sucked him off, his dick sealed tight ‘tween those thin lips and his hole wet enough to paint them both, thighs and cheeks alike.

It’d be so easy to kiss him. _Lord, let me kiss him. Lord, I might die if I don’t kiss him._  
  
Boone's hands were braced on his shoulders, ancient springs deep in the armchair groaning in counterpoint to the bunch and flex of his thighs as he pinned Artur down and ground against him.

“I want…” he says, and grits his teeth as he reaches down to get himself off, dick firm ‘tween his fingertips with short sharp tugs. “Artur, let me…”

“Yeah,” says Artur, and his dizziness is nothing to do with the warm room, the solid weight of Boone fucking down onto him, the fizz and snap of pleasure rolling deep down in his belly. Even the damp heat of his boxers and wet stick of stiff leather adds to the excitement sizzling down his spine and licking over his skin. “God, yeah.” He sucks his fingers wet and bats Boone’s hand away from between his thighs, and jerks him off until Boone is panting his name into his mouth, his hole clenched tight ‘round Artur’s cock as he comes with a sharp intake of breath and his eyes screwed shut.

“I’m gonna kiss you,” says Boone eventually, slumped over into his neck. “When I get my breath back.”

“I’d like that a lot,” says Artur, and strokes his palm down Boone’s flank, ‘round his hips. He wriggles his hips and grins when Boone makes a rumble of complaint from deep in his chest. “Fella, I’d like that more than you know.”

* * *

 

> Mansur

He tells Boone that age suits him. It's not a lie. Boone rubs at the silver flicking through his crew cut and says _brahminshit_ , but he grins a little and buys the next round when the waiter finally passes by.  
  
"To the memories," he says, and lights them both a cigarette.  
  
The Tops hasn't changed much in the past fifteen years. They've tidied the place up a little, whitewashed the walls and put a new bar by the swimming pool out back. The lights in the garden make the water sparkle and dance under the night sky, and when Mansur looks up he can see it reflected in Boone's glasses.  
  
Reading glasses though. No more sunglasses. They've both changed, him 'n Boone. They both got a bit older, a bit uglier, a bit harder. Boone smiles more. Mansur smiles a bit less.  
  
They have another drink, and nod along the music piped out through hidden speakers around the garden.  
  
Boone blows smoke rings into the dark sky, and tells a story about getting married on a whim. Got divorced too, but it was fine. They were better as friends. Gets a bit quiet after that, but he perks up eventually and tells him that Gannon got himself sick a few years back. Doc had a bit of his lung sliced out and stitched up and now he can't gasbag on quite as much as he used to. He runs into him sometimes back in the Boneyard, imperious and bookish and still cursed with a great sense of humour and a poor sense of comedic timing. He looks out the side of his eye and blurts out that he and the Doc dated twice and mutually declared it a disaster. Poor Arcade. Poor Boone. He could’ve warned him in advance that the Doc was tempting as a blue lake on a hot summer afternoon but as prickly as a cactus, but some experiences are better had unspoiled. Boone agrees with a lopsided smile, and they toast each other and the Doc, and in his absence declare him an adventure that any lucky fella should be blessed to survive at least once.

Mansur nods and tells him that Cass sends her regards. They say howdy now and then when their paths cross up north, and take a delight in having a drink and a good ol’ jaw when schedules allow. He’s got good money riding on a bet that she'll take a run at politicking one of these days, now that she’s a woman of means flush with hard currency, sitting enough of the northern trade routes to make a senate seat a near sure thing.  
  
Boone ashes his cigarette into the garden. "What about you?"  
  
He shrugs and leans back on his seat. Ran a dairy for a while, up past New Reno. Had a wife, had a husband, lost them both to something that got in their guts and killed them with bad blood. Went back on the road, running parcels and paperwork from town to town. It's a good job, he tells Boone. Keeps him moving. Keeps his boots worn down. Can't get too caught up in the past if the horizon keeps changing and the miles keep ticking up.  
  
"But what can you do," he says, not quite sure how to finish that train of thought. He's mourned enough. No need to get caught up in memories of the good ones and the lost ones.  
  
"Toast 'em," says Boone, and lifts his glass a little. "Glad I ran into you."  
  
"Yeah?" Mansur toasts him back, his knuckles bumping against Boone's fingers when he touches his glass to his.  
  
They stay out by the pool a while more, make half hearted inroads into a bottle of reasonable red wine and telling each other ‘bout the years and miles. He’s in the middle of a story when Boone leans over and kisses him, a brief touch of lips to his own, and goes back to smoking down the last of his cigarette. The cherry ember glows bright when he draws back to the filter, enough for Mansur to see the amusement crinkling up the corners of those hard eyes.  
  
"About time you committed," he says, abandoning the story entirely in favour of dropping his own cigarette to the ground and grinding it out ‘neath the heel of his boot.  
  
Boone just shrugs, grins a little wider. "Wanted to see if you were paying attention."  
  
It's been a long time for the both of them, enough to make the brief press of his mouth feel like the first time of first times all over again. Mansur pats him on the knee, and takes his face ‘tween his hands and kisses him properly.

"To the memories," he says when they part, and grins like a fool when he feels Boone smile against his mouth, his belly full of tentative joy.


End file.
